Traveler, L.E. DeLano [book series for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

is a gang of evil men who have been instructed to target me specifically.

I’ve got a mirror in front of me, and all I need is a little of the muted glow that passes for daylight in this place, and I am home free.

I lie in the dark with my eyes open wide, pulling my knees up into my body, and I try to keep warm.

37

Found

I realize that I must have dozed off, because I’m standing in the white-walled classroom. Mario comes through the red door and rushes over to me, grasping me by the shoulders.

“Jessa! You’re safe!”

“No I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. “The Traveler threw me into Finn’s world, I think. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but—”

I’m pulled backward through the red door with such force, my arms flail, reaching out for Mario. When I open my eyes, I am still lying on the dusty bed in the dark, and from the adrenaline pumping in my veins, it’s clear that something has startled me awake.

I lie very, very still, listening.

There it is again. The voices.

They’re getting louder, a lot louder. I can even make out the words.

“See…? Footprints. We weren’t over here today, and there was that dust storm yesterday morning. These are fresh.”

“Keep it down. Let’s start checking the houses.”

“They’re small feet.”

“A kid?”

“Or maybe a girl.”

“Yeah.”

There was a wealth of inflection in that last word that makes my breath freeze in my chest. I have to get out of here. I can’t just hide—they’ll be expecting that. Plus, in the dark, I can’t find a place that I know they won’t discover in daylight. I have to get out of here, and I have to do it now.

It sounds like there are only two, or possibly three of them, and they were right outside this house somewhere. I curse myself for not thinking about the footprints. In the fine layer of ash that’s settled over everything, the footprints would be clearly visible in the dim moonlight. I probably even tracked footprints onto the hardwood floors.

I get up and carefully pull back the drapes, checking the mirror across the room, but it’s so dim, I don’t know it’ll make enough of a difference—I can barely make it out from here even with the curtains wide open. I run over to it anyway, pressing my hand against it, willing myself to emerge more clearly from the dark shadow barely outlined in the glass. I don’t have much time, and every sound is reminding me that they’re getting closer.

Nothing.

I can’t afford to keep trying, and the mirror is far too large to take with me. Shattering it is out of the question—they’ll hear that from a mile away—so I move on, down the stairs, not even entirely sure of where I’m going to go. If I could get around them somehow, maybe I could hide in the first house, since they will have already searched there if they came in off the road.

I have to make this fast. I get my bearings. The back door has rusty hinges and is likely to squeak. It’s also on the other side of the house from where I want to go. I make my way to a room that will have a window on the side of the house closest to the one next door. I’m just going to have to hope they’re searching each house together, and not individually all at the same time.

I manage to open the window in what would have been the dining room, wincing every time it goes up another inch because it makes noise. I get it open as wide as I can risk, praying that there won’t be a breeze to rustle the drapery and put them on my trail again. If they have anyone stationed outside, they’ll see me easily. It occurs to me that even if there’s no one standing watch, they’ll see my footprints again in the fine ash that seems to be all over the ground.

I look around quickly for something I can use to sweep my tracks, and I find a long-handled feather duster in a cupboard in the laundry room. It’ll take extra time, but I don’t have a choice. I grab it in my hand like a club and make my way back to the window, moving as quietly as I can. I can hear them more easily now with the window open, and they sound like they’re checking a house across the street. I risk a quick glance out the window, and I can see them clearly now. There are three of them, and they are moving toward the house directly across from this one.

They all have knives of some kind clutched in their hands. Probably to make it easier to skin you and eat you. The thought digs into my brain with icy fingers, freezing me into immobility. Then I realize I’m wasting a golden opportunity. Their backs are turned, and they’re not yet in the house, where they could easily look out a window and see me.

I throw my legs over the windowsill and drop to the ground. I have the duster out and I walk quickly backward, sweeping it side to side, running as best I can while trying not to kick or trip on debris as I go. I make it to the side of the other house, then push on toward the back, just making it around the corner as one of them turns around.

I flatten myself against the wall, and I work on keeping my breathing even so I can hear them better. Was I seen? He was turning as I rounded the corner—it’s entirely possible. I am shaking, and sweat drips down my back even though it is cold out here. Please … please … please … I am murmuring soundlessly as I strain to listen. After a few moments, it’s clear no one is shouting an alarm. I move as quickly as I can, stepping around and over anything that might